


Up in Flames

by DAZzle_10



Series: You belong with me [4]
Category: Rugby RPF, Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Post Wales
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-02-24
Packaged: 2019-11-05 01:02:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17909051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DAZzle_10/pseuds/DAZzle_10
Summary: “Fuck.”My reaction, probably your reaction, the reaction of the nation - and Owen's reaction, too. According to this. Which is, of course, a widely-acclaimed source of insight into the inner workings of Owen Farrell post-Wales this year. Obviously.





	Up in Flames

**Author's Note:**

> Very much still beaten up over Wales - and I need more time to deal with it before I go back to Sixth Form tomorrow (especially since I still have homework due for tomorrow which I've barely even looked at - don't tell my mum; she won't be impressed). This is sort of me expressing it, and also hopefully a way to cheer you all up slightly after that. As a Sarries fan, I'm trying to feel happy for Sanjay, at least, but all I've managed so far is a sense of deep betrayal and the thought that Owen might have been targeting him specifically, because they clashed a *lot* during that match.
> 
> In other news, it's hovering in my mind that I might like to explore Brad Shields/Beauden Barrett - which would be the very definition of a long-distance relationship, I think. Just wondering what people think of that...? (Maybe read into Brad leaving Beaudy an England shirt, for example?)
> 
> Anyway, this is mostly meant to be a pick-up, so while there's a fair amount of negative feelings, it's not overly dominated by that. Hopefully it's enjoyable...? It's also fairly short for a 1-chapter piece. And if you want to see the shirt I mention, just go on Dylan's Instagram within the next... 15-ish hours.

“Fuck.”

The single word is miserable and quiet, muffled by Dylan’s clothing as Owen presses his face into the firm shoulder offered to him. He feels the rise and fall of Dylan’s ribs against him, accompanied by the rush of warm air over the back of his neck – hears the sigh, too, and tries to place the emotion in it. Disappointment? Sympathy? Frustration?

“It’s just one game,” Dylan reminds him gently, which doesn’t tell him anything – Dylan could be outright furious, for all Owen knows; he’s not focused enough to read his boyfriend as well as he normally could.

“I know,” he mutters, still speaking more to Dylan’s shoulder than anything else. “But it’s one game I wanted to win.”

“You want to win every game,” Dylan chuckles softly, but there’s no real humour in the sound besides soft fondness – not angry, then, but definitely cut up about the match. “…I know, love.”

“We should’ve…” he trails off without words, unable to find the right way to express everything they should have done better without listing it all out. “I shouldn’t have kicked it out on the full.”

“Probably not,” Dylan agrees simply. “It was just a mistake, and you can work on it.”

Gritting his teeth, Owen squeezes his eyes tightly shut and tries not to clench his hands too noticeably.

“I shouldn’t have done it,” he repeats. “I should’ve judged it better, I –”

“What’s done is done,” Dylan interrupts, calm as his arms rise to encircle Owen. “Yeah, so your kicking wasn’t at its best. You work on it, you go again.”

“I _know_ ,” Owen insists. “But –”

“But nothing,” Dylan lowers his voice, tilting his head to speak directly into Owen’s ear. “Pick yourself up, learn your lessons, and move on. End of story.”

Owen hates that he agrees with everything Dylan is saying on a logical basis; he’s not ready to concede to his boyfriend, not so soon after losing to Wales. He’s exhausted, irritated and not in the mood to give in to anyone or anything.

Instead, he draws back to scrub at his eyes, and swiftly changes the subject.

“Ready for surgery on Tuesday?”

Dylan eyes him, surprised.

“Didn’t think I’d told you when it was.”

“You didn’t,” Owen shrugs. “Eddie said it in Post-Match.”

Frustratingly, Dylan has spent the last week stubbornly tight-lipped about his knee, insisting that Owen’s focus should be solely on the game. Like Owen wouldn’t worry anyway. It bothers him, not knowing how Dylan is, how long until he’ll be back playing. This is a two-way relationship; he doesn’t want to feel like he’s not supporting Dylan as much as Dylan’s supporting him – and definitely wants to avoid Dylan feeling like Owen doesn’t care.

He does. He really does.

“Anyway, are you ready?” he prompts.

“Oh, sorry – just let me get my leg out so you can start,” Dylan rolls his eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “…Yeah, ready as I’ll ever be.”

Owen huffs quietly, not entirely appreciative of the humour, but it’s Dylan’s surgery; if Dylan wants to joke about it, he’s not about to put a stop to it. Nodding, he glances around at nothing in particular, then blows out a quiet breath. A yawn follows seconds later, and a quiet chuckle rumbles in Dylan’s chest.

“Time for bed, I think?”

Owen frowns at him, immediately disgruntled – and very much aware that Dylan’s right, which only serves to annoy him more. _Fuck_ , he’s tired. He’s already struggling to keep his eyes open, but he’s not about to prove Dylan correct. He refuses to.

“I’m not a child,” he protests drowsily, even as he drops his head back onto Dylan’s shoulder, another yawn stretching his jaw almost painfully.

“You’re not?” Dylan asks, voice dripping with sarcasm. “And here I thought I’d been having sex with a ten-year-old for over a year.”

“Fuck off…” is Owen’s only response, Dylan’s shoulders shaking with silent laughter – likely at the almost whiney tone that Owen has slipped into in his exhaustion. “Dyl…”

“Bed,” Dylan tells him, already nudging him towards the stairs. “I swear, you’re like a grouchy toddler.”

“ _Dyl_ …”

“What’s wrong, love?” Dylan’s just being cruel, now – taking advantage of him while he’s too tired to do anything about it, practically hanging off Dylan’s shoulder. “Shit, you’re heavy… What was it I called you a few months back? Faz… Fazlet? Fazlet.”

“No…” Owen grumbles, well aware that he really does sound like a child now, but unable to find the wherewithal to do anything about it as Dylan half-shoves, half-carries him up the stairs, his own legs doing little more than pretending to function.

“Aw, poor Fazlet…”

Dylan can go fuck himself. Owen will tell him that. In the morning.

 

When Owen first wakes, he almost doesn’t remember what happened yesterday. Dylan’s arm is draped over his waist, the older man’s face mashed into the pillow, and he feels warm, comfortable besides the ache in his limbs. For some time, he stares up at the ceiling, blank and peaceful – until thoughts and feelings start to filter back in: disappointment, hurt, humiliation…

_Ah, fuck._

Groaning, he scrubs a hand over his eyes, then drops it to flop on the mattress beside him. For another moment, he lies still, then, with the frustrating realisation that he’s far too restless to lie here any longer, even with Dylan next to him, he lifts the arm around his waist – not simply draped, he realises, but more wrapped – and sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed to stand.

He’s still, he notes, in the clothes he wore for the journey home. He should’ve stayed in Wales, really – shouldn’t have forced himself to make the drive all the way back (if only to Dylan’s place, not London, and he’s not sure when that started being _home_ too) – but he didn’t, and at least he’s had a good sleep now.

As quietly as possible, he dresses and leaves the room: heads downstairs to drop his roller on the floor and lower himself down next to it. It takes more effort than he’d like simply to reach for it and move it closer, settling his calf on it and lifting himself up onto his hands to roll out the burn in the muscle.

_Shit, that hurts._

“Fuck…” he hisses, gritting his teeth as he works over the painful tissue – the lactic acid build up from the game has been ridiculous, and he really wishes he’d spent another half-hour on this last night, before he drove over, but then he probably would have been too tired to make the trip safely, and he really didn’t plan on staying in Cardiff any longer than he had to.

Finally, chest heaving, he switches legs to work through his other calf. He’s got his quads, his hamstrings, his glutes and his back to do after this, and he’s _not_ looking forward to it.

When sounds upstairs inform him that Dylan is up, he’s finished with his legs – for now – and dreading starting on his back, as much as it’s killing him at the moment. Before he can, however, Dylan appears in the doorway, and he twists, the greeting on his lips falling away as he snorts incredulously.

“What?” Dylan looks around, frowning.

“The _fuck_ are you wearing?”

The shirt that Dylan’s somehow decided is in any way wearable is… monstrous. Possibly not the worst Owen’s seen him in, but large tigers patterned over a dark, nondescript colour is actually enough to lift Owen’s mood a little following the match – any excuse to laugh at Dylan after last night.

“What’s wrong with it?” Dylan demands. “It’s a fine shirt.”

“It’s hideous,” Owen tells him, unable and unwilling to bite back his growing grin. “Just… No, Dyl, I – No.”

“I like it,” Dylan tells him, and Owen rolls his eyes, because _of course_ Dylan does. “How are you feeling, anyway?”

Owen almost wishes Dylan hadn’t asked.

“Like shit,” he admits quietly, blowing out a breath. “Still got to sort my back.”

Nodding, Dylan offers him a gentle smile.

“I’ll bring you some coffee through.”

“Thanks,” Owen mumbles, watching his boyfriend turn and leave – tiger-covered back disappearing through to the kitchen – then returning his focus to his recovery work.

 He needs to get himself ready to pick up and move on when he goes back to Pennyhill or wherever Eddie wants them. By the time he’s called up, he needs to be physically and psychologically in the right place to take the lessons forward and leave the rest of the game behind – and with any luck, coffee and Dylan will help with that.


End file.
